On an open-source social media in a far, far realm of virtual space, where only plain text finds a place upon a user’s wall, where the mark of a writer is the strength of his word, did appear these brief and simple lines lauding that plane supporting the tools of tongue and trade.
And here may you, who were, among all mankind, the recipients of that missive containing these lines, speak to their creator.
Be you worthy, beware your speaking, and bear well your privilege.
A church bulletin I received this week featured a friend’s article. I forwarded the bulletin on to my friend, who would not have otherwise known that they had published his article. He thanked me and seemed pleased, and I was glad to have encouraged him, if indeed it did.
In reply, I wrote him and said this: It may not work for others this way, but I usually feel more motivated and inspired to do more and better writing when I see that others use my material or benefit in some way from what I have written. Continue reading “Are we writers like dogs?”
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing. A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time. A schedule is a mock-up of reason and order—willed, faked, and so brought into being; it is a peace and a haven set into the wreck of time; it is a lifeboat on which you find yourself, decades later, still living. Each day is the same, so you remember the series afterward as a blurred and powerful pattern.